by Elle Gray
Fish nods sadly. “He is a cruel, evil man.”
“Is there proof of this?”
“I have my people working on acquiring it. There are apparently photos of him at the site of the mass grave,” he tells me. “But I warn you now, Agent Wilder, Willem Mangold is not a man you want to be on the wrong side of. This may be a fight you would be wise to walk away from.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“He has the backing of the US government, Blake,” he implores me. “He is entrenched deeply with Senators, Representatives, Cabinet members. Lobbying firms, shell companies, think tanks… the man has a vast network the likes of which you couldn’t even conceive of. He was instrumental in selecting the last three Supreme Court Justices. His power knows no bounds.”
“If he was instrumental in selecting the last three Justices, I’m pretty certain he was instrumental in creating those three openings,” I note.
“Which is why I urge you to walk away from this,” he says. “This world is better for having you in it. And this is a fight I fear you cannot win. The forces he can bring to bear against you are legion. He is not afraid to shed blood for his cause. In fact, from all I have gathered, I’ve learned that he seems to enjoy it.”
His words have a chilling effect on me but at the same time, they light a fire in my belly I know will soon burn out of control. The fact that Willem Mangold believes he can murder eight hundred people with impunity is beyond infuriating. It’s evil. And I can’t turn a blind eye to pure evil like that. I take another sip of my tea, trying to wrap my head around it all and grimace. If that’s the bad news, how much worse is the super bad news?
“All right, lay it on me,” I say. “What’s the super bad news, Fish?”
He purses his lips and I see genuine fear in his eyes, which of course freaks me out. Fish doesn’t scare easily. His visible concern is no small thing.
“Do you remember the notorious assassin I told you of recently? The Đavole?”
My stomach plummets. “Oh, no.”
“My sources confirm for me that the Đavole has been placed under the employ of Hyperion Corporate Logistics, the Seattle-based security division of the organization known as Tartarus Enterprises, which is a subsidiary of BXA Global Investments. BXA recently merged with Aprico Holdings, which maintains a controlling stake in the lobbying firm called The Prosperity Policy Alliance—notably the group that highly recommended all three recent Supreme Court picks and maintains heavy influence on Capitol Hill. And the principal donor for that group is none other than…”
“Willem Mangold,” I finish for him, my voice full of dread.
Fish nods. “Bingo.”
I nod slowly, barely able to control my breathing. “What can you tell me about this assassin?”
He shrugs. “Nobody knows. The Đavole is as much a myth as he is a man. Some say he comes from Japan. Others say he’s Russian. Still others say he comes from somewhere in the Balkans. Nobody can even say if it the Đavole is even a man,” Fish explains. “The only thing people can agree on is this… if you need somebody dead, you hire the Đavole. Nobody has ever survived an encounter with him.”
“How do we know that for certain though? If he’s as much myth as man, as you say?”
“I know what you are trying to do, Blake. But that is not how this will go. Believe me when I say this is of vital importance. The Đavole always provides his clients with proof of death. And his victims are many,” Fish says. “He very well may have assassinated those Supreme Court Justices. Nobody can say for sure.”
That sends a lightning bolt of fear straight through me. The idea that I’m being hunted by some master assassin is well beyond unsettling. That is something I did not have on my bingo card.
“So, what you’re telling me is that the Thirteen is sending John Wick after me?” I ask, giving him an awkward smile.
“John who?”
“Movies. John Wick is this unstoppable assassin,” I explain. “You should really watch them. I know how fond you are of action films.”
Fish sighs. “I don’t think you are taking this seriously enough, Agent Wilder. Your very life is on the line.”
“All right. You’re right,” I say. “So, are you absolutely sure the Thirteen has hired this guy to take me out?”
“It’s hard to say, Blake. It is possible the Thirteen sees another threat in Seattle. But if you insist on pursuing Mangold, or the Thirteen more generally, I would advise…”
He takes a breath, as if not sure how to say it. But I already know what he’s going to say.
“…I would advise you to watch your back at all times. Trust no one.”
I nod slowly, the gravity of the situation sinking into my very bones. “Well, that’s easy enough. I already don’t trust anyone.”
“Blake…”
“But at the same time, I can’t turn a blind eye to Mangold committing mass murder,” I say. “I’ll take every precaution I can to protect myself, but he needs to be brought to justice.”
“I was afraid you would say that,” Fish says sadly.
“I don’t know any other way to be,” I tell him. “This is who I am.”
Fish gives me a wan smile. “This I know. Your determination is something I admire about you,” he says. “It’s also something that scares me for you.”
I return his weak smile. “That makes two of us, my friend.”
Sixteen
Wilder Residence, The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments; Downtown Seattle
“Kit? You home?” I call out as I come through the door.
I wasn’t really expecting an answer, so when I don’t get one, I’m not all that surprised. It’s after ten and I’m sure Kit’s out looking for whoever it is she’s looking for. After my meeting with Fish, I’m feeling a little rattled, to be honest. I wish she were home. Having her in the house might make me feel a little better about things. Knowing there’s some super-assassin out there who may or may not be hunting me has left me feeling disconcerted, to say the least.
I’m still a little wired and not ready to go to bed yet, so I flip on some music. Art Tatum’s piano fills the apartment and soothes me if only a little. I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down at my computer and take a drink as it boots up. Once it’s online, I pull up a search engine and start looking for any and references to this Đavole I can find.
There isn’t much. I learn that the name is Serbian and is loosely translated to mean “Devil,” which is really comforting. There are some vague newspaper accounts that mention him, though they’re far from substantive. I do find a few items on Reddit that pique my interest. I don’t know how factual any of it is, but what I read more or less lines up with what Fish told me.
The Đavole burst onto the scene about twelve years ago by assassinating several Russian diplomats on an international trip in their heavily fortified compound in Italy. There is very little information about how the assassin gained entrance to the compound, but he managed to kill all three in their bedrooms and slip out again without an alarm being raised. The bodies were found the next morning by the staff.
After that, the Đavole hit a pair of Chinese tech moguls while they vacationed in the UAE. And after that, he killed a German scientist who was working on a drug that would help eliminate migraines. Interestingly enough, an American pharmaceutical company—Hepius—marketed a migraine drug about a month later. Could be a coincidence but I’m thinking it’s probably not. I’ve never been a big fan of coincidences. Especially when a quick search shows me that Hepius is yet another subsidiary of Aprico Holdings—and Willem Mangold and Daniel Graham both sit on the board of it.
Fish was right when he said there was no consensus about the age, ethnicity, or even gender of the Đavole. Some swear it’s a man in his mid-forties from Eastern Europe. Others argue it’s a French woman in her mid-twenties. Still others think the Đavole is actually Scarlett Johansson using her abilities as the Black Widow to effect vigilante justice around the world. That’s the int
ernet for you.
The nervous energy is still coursing through my body, so I decide to burn it out of me. I get dressed in a pair of bright neon running leggings for visibility and a blue t-shirt. I pull on a light sweatshirt and then lace up my running shoes. I drop my keys into the horribly unfashionable but totally practical fanny pack, then slip in my earbuds. After tying my hair back, I queue up the music on my phone and drop that into the fanny pack as well. I zip it up and clip it around my waist, then leave the apartment and head out for a run.
I follow my usual path, avoiding dark areas and keeping to a well-lit running trail. I pass by a few other runners and wonder what’s keeping them up. I’d be willing to bet it’s not the idea of an international assassin murdering them in their sleep. My path takes me through the park, and although there are lights all along it, I feel surrounded by inky darkness. It presses close on either side of the lit path. Like it’s closing in around me.
I tell myself it’s only my nerves making me feel paranoid. But I’m half-convinced something is going to reach out of the darkness and snatch me off the path. I shake my head, silently chastising myself for being such a paranoid idiot. Using all the tools Dr. Reinhart’s given me over the years, I try to calm myself down and remain in the moment. Try to keep my head straight and think clearly.
No matter what I do though, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end as goosebumps prickle my skin. I feel the knots in my stomach constrict painfully and I’m overwhelmed by the sensation of being watched. I know it’s not paranoia, though. Somebody is out there, hiding in the thick pockets of shadow in the park. Watching me. That feeling of having eyes on you is so powerful and unique there is no mistaking it for anything else.
I keep my eyes moving, cutting left then right; trying to keep my senses wide open, I push on. I pick up my pace and run a little faster to get off the loop that cuts through the park and back on the city streets where I feel slightly better. I’m proficient in a couple of different martial arts so it’s not like I’m entirely helpless. But at least on the streets, there are ostensibly more people around. There are houses and apartments are close by and if all else fails, I’m not above yelling, screaming, and making a spectacle of myself if it means keeping myself from getting killed.
I finally get off the loop and am back on the city streets, but that feeling of being watched persists. It follows me all the way back to my apartment and only dissipates when I step into the shower and let the cascade of hot water sluice away all my paranoia and fear. It’s only when I’m dressed and slipping into bed that I feel normal again. But even still, I make sure my service weapon is on my nightstand beside me.
My eyes fly open and a powerful wave of adrenaline washes through my body. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a long moment, wondering what it was that pulled me from sleep. My bedroom is cloaked in thick, dark shadows, and a sliver of moonlight slants in from a gap between the two panels of my blackout curtains and falls across my bed.
I strain my ears and listen, my stomach roiling and my breath quickening. There. A soft creak from one of the floorboards in the hallway outside my bedroom. I glance at the clock and see that it’s almost three. My first thought is that it’s Kit coming home and is walking softly to avoid waking me. But then I hear another soft creak and know the footsteps are approaching my doorway. It’s not Kit.
The adrenaline flooding my body doubles and the knots in my stomach tighten painfully. Moving as quietly as I can, I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of my bed. I snatch my weapon off the nightstand and get to my feet. Moving slowly and deliberately, I make my way toward the door, making sure to stay on the area rugs to soften my footsteps. Pressing my back to the wall beside the door, I draw a breath in and hold it.
I count to ten, but nothing happens. Nobody comes through the door and the footsteps in the hall haven’t repeated. My mind is racing. I’m sure it’s the Đavole on the other side of the door, just waiting for me to open it. But I lean against the wall for several minutes more, my entire body growing tighter the whole time. Every muscle in my body is taut, ready for a fight, but nothing happens. I hear nothing whatsoever.
It’s then I start to wonder if it’s my imagination running off with me again. Fish’s story about the Đavole, combined with what I found on my own, combined with letting myself get freaked out while I was out on a run—it’s no wonder I’m hearing things. My mind has been spinning since before I went to bed, so I shouldn’t be surprised that I woke up suddenly. And after that, my imagination filled in all the blanks, and here I am. Standing with a gun in hand, ready to fight somebody that’s not even there.
A nervous chuckle escapes me as I will myself to loosen up. I push off the wall and open my bedroom door. I’m aware of the movement in the darkness before me a split second before the fist crashes into my midsection. The air leaves my lungs with an “oomph” sound, and I double over. Something hard and solid crashes down on the side of my head and I drop to all fours, desperately trying to suck in air as my blood, thick and viscous, rolls down my face.
My instincts take over and I roll to the right a moment before a booted foot crashes down onto the floor where my head just was. Leaping to my feet, I raise the weapon in my hand only to feel a large hand, harder than iron, grip my wrist and bend it backward. I cry out in pain as he twists it at an awkward angle, and I lose my grip on the gun. It hits the floor with a hard thud, and I watch helplessly as the intruder, dressed in black from head to toe, kicks it under the bed.
The man is large and solidly built. His hands are enormous and stronger than they should be. He’s got a balaclava over his head, leaving only his eyes exposed. In the shadows and gloom of my bedroom, they simply look like twin points of darkness. Cold, bottomless, and devoid of mercy.
“Who are you?” I gasp desperately. “Are you the Đavole?”
He laughs. “No, love. I ain’t him and you’d best count your blessin’s,” he replies, his voice thick with an Australian accent. “I’m just somebody here to deliver a message you apparently aren’t gettin’.”
He drives his meaty fist into my stomach again, driving what little air I’ve managed to suck in back out again. I clutch my stomach and double over. The man pushes me down onto my backside and I curl into the fetal position. From the corner of my eye though, I watch him. Watch the way he moves. He’s light on his feet, but careless. He thinks he’s subdued me and I’m fine letting him believe that.
“My boss wants you to know he don’t appreciate you lookin’ as hard at him as you have been,” he says. “He don’t want to kill you, but he wants you to know he will if he has to.”
“Who’s your boss?” I manage to croak. “And why isn’t he here to deliver his message himself? Too much of a coward?”
The man laughs, his voice a deep, raspy growling sound. He moves faster than I expected and kicks me square in the small of the back. Pain explodes within me, and I cry out, feeling the agony reverberating from head to toe. I suck in deep lungfuls of air, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to ride out the currents of pain.
“Are ya gettin’ the message yet, love?” he sneers.
I grit my teeth and will the pain away. I lean on the lessons learned in my martial arts classes about mastering the pain. About fighting through it and not letting pain cripple you. It’s been a long time; I’m definitely going to need a refresher course or twelve, but it takes the pain from a loud shriek to a dull roar.
My assailant squats down beside me and I hear the distinctive sound of him chambering a round in what’s probably a Glock. He presses the muzzle flush to my temple.
“I asked if you were gettin’ the message yet,” he growls.
Moving faster than he anticipated, I grip his hand and bend it backward, just as he’d done to me. At the same time, I drive my other fist straight into his throat with as much strength as I can muster, drawing a choked shriek from him as I bend his wrist back to an impossible angle, then give it one more hard push. I hear the bones snap
and feel the resistance in his wrist vanish. The man screams out in agony and drops the gun with a hard, metallic clank.
He doubles over, cradling his injured wrist, and I take the opportunity to jump to my feet and immediately drive the ball of my foot into the side of his head as hard as I can. He drops to the ground like a sack of dirty laundry and doesn’t move. He’s out cold. Moving quickly, I find some plastic cuffs in my go-bag and bind his hands behind his back—and after a moment’s thought, bind his ankles as well.
It’s only then, when I’ve got him subdued and bound, that I allow myself a few minutes to sit down, let the shaking in my body subside, and catch my breath. Gradually, my racing heart slows and my ragged breathing returns to normal. I can breathe again.
I get to my feet, stagger to the bathroom, and flip on the light. My face is pale and drawn, half of it covered in blood, giving me a visage straight out of a nightmare. I take a minute to clean myself up and slap a bandage over the cut near my left temple. He must have hit me with the butt of his weapon since he didn’t draw contact with his fists.
Done with my feeble effort at wound care, I shuffle back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The man is awake and has rolled onto his side. He glares at me from behind his balaclava. I get up and flip on the light in the room, then squat down and rip the balaclava off his head. He’s older than I expected. He has a thick, white goatee, and his head is shaved clean. There are lines around his eyes and mouth and his skin has that dark complexion that comes from too much time in the sun.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I pick up his dropped weapon and retake my seat at the foot of the bed.
“Go to hell,” he snaps.
“Who are you working for?”
“Go. To. Hell.”
“Creative.”
“Last chance. Tell me who you are and who you’re working for,” I demand.
“Go—”
“Yeah, yeah, heard it before.”
